


A Brighter Thing

by lmeden



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-07
Updated: 2011-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames walks away from the arrivals gate, incomprehensible chatter swirling around him, and the heavy weight of the PASIV in his hand, never <i>dreaming</i> that this machine is real – that it will bring him anything more than a tidy profit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brighter Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the inception_bang at livejournal. The glorious art is by fanlay. Her art master post is [here](http://fanlay.livejournal.com/12528.html). The fic master post is [here](http://lmeden.livejournal.com/112761.html).

Eames strides away from the arrivals gate, weighty silver carry-on in his white-knuckled grip, other hand shoved into his pocket. There‘s a patter of running steps and a clash of raised voices behind him. He tugs at his tie, wrenching the knot and half strangling himself before he can work it off. He slips it into a garbage nearby, hopefully inconspicuously, and undoes the top three buttons of his dress shirt. It’s some sort of disguise, at least – he looks a bit different than on the plane. He smiles at an older couple walking by and nods, please with himself – his pockets are £200 lighter, and the customs agent at the desk behind him £200 richer. He hears the man yell at the British government agents pursuing Eames in a foreign language, completely incomprehensible, and the agents’ confused replies. He turns the corner. It’ll take them a while to get away from airport authorities, and by that time he’ll be gone.

He strides toward the front of the airport and the ticketing desks, heart pounding. He’ll take the first flight out, going anywhere. He fingers the thick wad of bills in his pocket. And he’ll be paying cash.

\--

He settles his suitcases onto the bed. It creaks under their weight and Eames shakes out his arms, staring down at the bags. He wants to toss the heaviest case into the corner, break the damned thing apart in a fit of spite, but he doesn’t. It’s too valuable. He never should have stolen it. He frowns at the glinting PASIV case and sets it down on the side of the bed, between the metal frame and the side table.

Christ, but it’s hot in here. Eames pulls at his jacket, disgusted at the way it clings to his shirt and shoulders. He throws it onto the bed and unbuttons his cuffs, rolling them halfway up his arms. It doesn’t help. The air is still stifling, and every breath he takes feels like through a thick blanket. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

This is probably the worst place in the world he could have come to. It’s too damned hot, Eames has been dizzy from the moment he stepped off the small plane, and he feels _disgusting_. He’s dripping with sweat. He wants to throw open the door of a fridge and climb in.

But they shouldn’t look for him here; his family - and hence the British Government, damn the inveterate gossips that are his relatives - all know how much he hates the heat and would rather be anywhere but, well, here. He’d never have chosen this tiny city in the middle of North Africa if he’d had a choice, but the flight times had lined up so perfectly that he hadn’t checked the destination. He’d kept flying until there were no more flights to take, and now here he was.

There’s a clunk as the prepaid cell phone he grabbed from an airport kiosk falls to the floor. He scoops it up and flips it open. The original charge is failing fast – he had planned on making a few calls as soon as he found an apartment, get in contact with a few people in the city, but he’ll have to wait until it’s charged. In any case, he doesn’t know who to call – not yet.

He needs to find a buyer for the PASIV – someone foolish and wealthy enough to take the Device off his hands, despite the fact that SIS has followed him halfway across Europe in an attempt to get it back. He should have known better – inspected the suitcase locked inside that desk drawer before walking out with it. But it had taken such finesse to pick the lock, and it had seemed like such a good cover; dressed nicely that day, he had looked like any other government worker with the case in hand. It had been perfect. Until the government official he’d robbed had discovered that not only were his most controversial contracts missing, but his priceless piece of experimental equipment was gone, and Eames had opened the suitcase to discover that he’d picked up a piece of priceless government equipment (and top secret, no doubt), and promptly fled the country with it. He’d even made the international wanted lists, and his face and name had been broadcast on the news, his crime unspecified. He had watched the description flash across the screen on a plane taxiing out of Switzerland, highly amused, the manual he’d found inside the PASIV case open in his lap for light reading. No one on the plane had so much as glanced at him with suspicion. He picked the PASIV manual back up and continued reading its illustrated, glossy pages.

A drug that can induce not only sleep, but vivid dreams. And a machine that allows multiple people to share that dream and, apparently, interact within it. It is science beyond anything that Eames could have believed; if he hadn’t held the device in his hands and verified its solidity himself, he’d think that it was all an elaborate hoax. He still does. It must be a hoax, despite the British Government’s attempts to retrieve the Device. It _can’t_ be real.

None of that matters in the end. This is a rare item, highly sought after, and its price will be high. Maybe high enough to free Eames from dependence on his family’s money. In this city he’s anonymous; it’s like being reborn, in a way. Once he locates the sources of power in this city, makes contacts and places a few calls, he’ll get this thing off his hands. And just maybe start anew. He digs out the phone charger from his carry-on and plugs the phone into a loose socket.

Eames walks into the tiny attached bathroom – dubiously cleaned tile with dirt clinging to the grout, toilet barely cleaned at all, judging by the stains – and turns on the water. It runs grey-brown for a moment; he lets it go until the water turns clear before touching it. Lukewarm, which most likely serves as cold in this place.

He cups his hands underneath, and when they fill to overflowing leans down, splashing his face with the water. He runs a wet hand down the back of his neck, relieved by the coolness of it.

He should stay inside, make do with take-away if he can locate some, room service perhaps (though this is an apartment building, not a hotel), or something else for the next few days. It would be safe until the SIS scrutiny dies down. But _damn_ being safe, he can’t sit in this room any longer.

Not with that thing next to the bed.

He thinks about taking his jacket, and settles for removing an almost empty packet of cigarettes and a small red light from the pocket. It’s too hot for the jacket; he places the fags and lighter in his trouser pockets.

Eames grabs the apartment keys from the bed, glances at the locks on the window and door, and decides that he doesn’t care about hiding the PASIV Device properly right now (it’s too hot; really, really hot), and walks out the door, locking it behind him. He squeezes past an older couple on the stairway and skips out onto the street. It is barely feels cooler out here, and is far too busy.

All around him, people are speaking in a language that Eames doesn’t understand. He pushes into the crowd and walks with long strides, glad to move if nothing else. The language around him sounds like complete gibberish at first, but as he tunes out the sounds of cars honking, animals crying, and raucous laughter, he begins to sense a pattern. A rhythm; there is a rise and fall to the language here. Like water on the seashore, it ebbs and flows. It’s really very beautiful.

But it’s tiring, listening to a language that he cannot understand, walking through a place he doesn’t know.

When he reaches the end of the street his apartment building is on, Eames stops. He could keep going and explore the rest of the city, but he dare not. He doubts he would be able to find his way back to the apartment.

So he turns around and makes his way back down the street towards his apartment. On the way, he sees a small cafe, incomprehensible yellow sign crooked over the entrance, and empty tables inside. He pushes sideways through the crowd until he reaches the place, pulls the door open, and slips inside. There’s air conditioning in here, the first Eames has felt today. He smiles and just stands for a moment, relishing the cool air.

There are signs behind the counter with prices, and labeled food inside a case, but he can’t read any of it. His stomach growls, unmindful of his brain’s incomprehension. He has no idea what the place sells, and can’t ask, so he simply looks around. There’s a small case in the corner with drinks. He walks over and pulls it open, grasping bottled water. The man behind the counter speaks rapidly, and when Eames looks, the man is looking at him. It’s going to be a fucking nuisance, not knowing the language. He foresees months of trouble.

Eames digs into his pocket, feeling for money, and pulls out two pounds. That should do it, no matter the exchange rates. He leaves the man puzzling over the English money and sits backwards on a bistro chair by the window, not waiting for change. Crowds stream by, on the street.

Everything is so foreign here. There’s no one as pale as him, no one that speaks his language (though he hasn’t tested that yet, he should try later). After years of living in a country where it felt like everyone knew his name, where everyone knew his business and family, and his secrets were nothing, it feels good.

He sets the bottled water down on the table and shifts, digging the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Without looking his lights one and then simple holds it, allowing it to burn down. He restrains himself from taking a drag. Filthy habit. Just like himself. He smiles, watching the people pass by outside.

  


He reaches over and takes a sip of the water. It’s lukewarm, but feeling colder by the second.

\--

Eames quickly finds, by loitering in his building and smiling at the neighbors as they pass, that the older couple he saw briefly on the first day speaks English. After that, it takes only three days of stilted conversation to find the closest bar.

It’s smoky inside, and though the temperature in the city cools at night to something approaching chilly, this long room retains the heat of the day. Men crowd the tables, leaning over their drinks and slurring tales in many languages; standing and gesturing emphatically; sometimes wagering over impromptu games of chance.

Eames sits in a corner, alone at his table, legs braced against the floor and eyes lidded as he leans his head back against the wooden wall and watches the men walk by. He cradles the cell phone in his hand. A quick glance shows it’s full of charge, and has reception. Eames pulls a creased napkin across the table. A phone number and time is scrawled, nearly illegibly, across it. His contact.

It has taken him almost two weeks of loitering in the bar, drinking to the edge of inebriation and chattering in a combination of rough English and gesture with the locals, to secure a name. He called his first contact two nights ago, and received this phone number in return. The man he is about to call – Eames checks his watch, sliding it cautiously out from under his shirt sleeve; no need to advertise his more expensive belongings – in about four minutes, is extremely interested in the PASIV Device. So Eames is waiting for the assigned time; maybe he’ll finally get the thing off his hands.

He idly watches a game of chance – maybe poker, he can’t be sure from here – taking place a few tables away. He _could_ play, theoretically, as he doesn’t need to speak the local dialect to calculate probabilities, but he doesn’t want to relieve his neighbors of their money. Not yet. He smiles to himself and closes his eyes.

It feels like an instant later that Eames opens his eyes to check the time. He’s a full minute late for the appointment. “Bugger,” he hisses to himself, and begins dialing. The heat and stress from constant negotiating must have affected him more than he’d realized. He never falls asleep so easily

The phone rings three times, slowly. Eames leans forward and rubs his eyes before leaning on his hand, shading the movements of his lips behind spread fingers. With a click, the line picks up.

“Mr Darling, it is good to hear from you.”

The man on the other end has a deep voice, and speaks English well, if with a heavy and confusing accent, especially given the fuzziness of Eames’ thoughts. He pauses before identifying his pseudonym and smiles. He’s used this false name twice before and _adores_ it; the idea of forcing the greedy pricks he’s forced to deal with to call him ‘darling’…is heavenly. He forces his glee down.

“Yes, it’s good to finally speak,” he says, and stops. Best not to give anything away, let the buyer come to him with his offer. Then they can bargain.

The man doesn’t seem bothered by Eames’ reticence. “You have something that interests me greatly, Mr Darling. I am willing to offer you a substantial amount for it.”

“I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to acquire this object and keep it safe. Your offer would have to be very high for me to even consider it.”

“I have in mind a number somewhere between three and five.”

Eames frowns; well, that’s annoying. Can’t the man just say four? And four what? Thousand? Hundred thousand? Million? Eames doesn’t know what the damn thing is worth. But it doesn’t matter. He knows better than to accept the very first offer.

“Well, if that’s all, I’m afraid not. It was nice taking to you, though…” He turns the phone away from his ear, allowing the raucous noise of the bar to filter down the line.

The buyer’s voice snaps from the other end of the line. “Do not be so hasty, Mr Darling. I haven’t finished with my offer.”

Slowly, he brings the phone back to his ear. “Hmm?” He’s annoyed the man, thrown him off-balance. Good.

“I understand that the British Government is interested in this item. It would be a considerable risk to my own welfare and security, were I to purchase it. I will offer you – oh, five – and in exchange you will give me not only the Device, but your considerable expertise.“

Expertise? What is he… “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me, Mister…”

“Call me Em, please.”

“Mister Em.” Eames considers and reasons that the man means the initial ‘M’, very mysterious to be sure, but it’s just so much more fun to imagine him named ‘Em’. Em, Um, and Urgh. “I’m not sure what you’ve been told, but I’m not an expert in this kind of Device. I’m just a dealer. Please keep your offers restricted to money, because I’ll accept nothing else.”

“Ah, I see. I must have been misinformed.” Mr M’s voice is pensive.

He must be a fool. Eames is half convinced the PASIV is a hoax or ruse. By now, he’ll accept M’s next offer, just to get it out of his hands for good. Not only is the Government interested, but rich, anonymous buyers believe it’s real? Too mad.

“Seven point five, then.”

Eames’ eyebrows raise at the swift price escalation. And they are dealing with millions, it seems. He counts to five, holding his breath. Waiting until the tension over the line crackles.

“Seems reasonable.”

“Very good, then, Mr Darling. I have your location. I will call you in a week’s time to arrange a meeting.”

“Okay,” Eames chokes out, and the line goes dead.

He knows where Eames is? _Eames_ doesn’t even know where he is. M must have traced the call. Damn. He better not be with the SIS, after all the effort Eames has gone to. The man could have sent someone early – it wouldn’t take much effort to find the PASIV, shoved hurriedly under Eames’ bed. M will get the entire thing without paying him. Eames will have to hide it better. Go back to the apartment and cut a hole into the mattress or something. He shoves the phone into his pocket and stands, foreboding freezing his insides.

\---

An hour later he’s back in the bar, sitting in the same position at a table on the opposite side of the room, doing his best to avoid the heavyset bartender’s notice – as he’d forgotten to pay for his drinks when he rushed out earlier. He nurses a glass he slipped off the next table over and watches the men around him, trying to relax.

The PASIV is safe, or as safe as it’s going to be and allow Eames to retrieve it later. He’d carried it up to the roof of his apartment building and hid it under a loose patch of tar. There was no sign that anything was there, unless you knew where to look. All he can do now is wait, and try not to worry.

At the impromptu poker table, the game still going strong, one man shouts and throws his cards down. He backs away from the table and his chair slams against the ground. The other men playing pull their cards in, closer, eyeing the fallen chair before turning back to the game. The man dealing looks up, and his gaze catches Eames’. His raises one eyebrow, a faint gesture in invitation.

Eames smiles, but no. He doesn’t want any more attention tonight. He’d prefer to watch, as always, he finds that people are so much more interesting to observe than they are to interact with. Eames shakes his head at the dealer and the man turns back to his game.

He leans further back, taking a last sip of his bitter drink and reaching out to place the grimy glass of the table in front of him. Everything here seems dirty, as if the earth itself rebels against any attempts at washing and sends up great gouts of dust to smother anything that might be clean. Eames’ shirt is stiff with sweat, and his hair slick with oil. He should wash, but there’s not much water in the apartment building – the boiler runs out of hot water just as soon as the shower has gotten to the right temperature. He doesn’t care, really. The dirt helps him blend in, lends him an air of poverty that most people take pains to avoid, helping him seem less foreign and go less noticed in this worn and delicate city.

He glances back towards the gaming table and receives a surprise. The front legs of his chair hit the floor with a crack as he leans forward, and a strand of unwashed hair falls into his eyes.

A pale man stands over the poker table. His dark brown hair is slicked mostly back and out of the way, but a few pieces fall forward and shadow his eyes. He is wearing a leather jacket and pressed trousers, immaculately tailored and pressed; the jacket cleaves close to his body, gleaming in the dim bar’s lighting. He’s quite unforgettable. But what intrigues Eames the most is that he’s foreign; he’s Caucasian and was likely born very far away from this small, sandy city. The man has a hand on the dealer’s shoulder, and peers at the man’s hand. The dealer glances up, speaking quietly to him. No one else seems to take as much notice of the man as Eames.

The man looks up, dark eyes flashing intent on him, catching Eames’ mid-stare. He refuses to look away. The man is much younger than Eames had assumed. He’s almost a boy, actually, though a very well dressed one. He is – unsurprisingly, given his sheer presence – quite lovely.

His skin is fair; a hint of pink sunburn clings to his cheekbones and the arches of his ears. He narrows his eyes at Eames, and Eames feels no warmth in their gaze. The tip of his tongue darts out to lick his lips and he turns, walking away through the crowd, cigarette smoke parting and swirling in his wake.

Eames hesitates. He wants to follow, but it’s such an unusual urge. So against his habits. Perhaps the man will return, visit the bar once more? He might come back, but he might not. If he lets the man go, Eames will probably never see him again. So despite all the risk – the man could quite easily be a British agent, or a member of any of the authorities currently seeking Eames’ capture – and all of his intuition, Eames stands up and searches for his retreating back.

He catches a glimpse of a leather-clad shoulder and moves, pushing his way through the crowd, muttering absent and useless ‘Excuse me’s to the men he brushes aside. No one tries to stop him until he reaches the door, and then Eames remembers that he hasn’t paid for his drinks this time, either.

The bartender is heavyset and short, with darkly curled hair that covers his head like a cloud. Eames jerks to a halt before him, and as the man places his hands on his hips, he seems very tall indeed. He speaks rapidly in his own language, incomprehensible to Eames but very angry in tone. Eames stares at him, eyes wide.

“I’m so sorry, but I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” Eames stutters, hands out to his sides and glancing past the bartender in search of the young, arresting man. He’s gone.

The bartender doesn’t pause at Eames’ attempts to explain himself. He speaks faster, his face grower darker and redder, and gestures in the universal sign for rage. Frustrated, and knowing the young man is walking farther away by the moment if he is not already gone, Eames tries to push past the bartender and go for the door. The bartender places two great, meaty hands on Eames, and shoves. He stumbles backwards, fetching up against a table.

Forgetting the young man for an instant, Eames pushes off the table and surges forward, hands balled into fists and raised before him. Two years of boxing in school may not prove to be a big help now, but it’s better than nothing. He sinks into a boxing stance and let’s his body remember the forms.

He bounces back and forth on the balls of his feet, trying to stay ready and alert. He doesn’t have time for this – he has to get out and find that man, the man with the leather coat and dark eyes. But the bartender is better than him, or maybe Eames is too long out of practice. There is a slight shift in the air, a murmur runs through the crowd around them and he looks up just in time to see the bartender step forward, swing his fist forward, and with a great shock there is nothing.

\---

His head pounds, sharp spikes of pain encompass the left side of his skull and trail down his neck. He almost groans, but stops himself just in time, afraid it will cause his head to burst. He peels open his eyes halfway, shying away from the brilliant sunlight that pours down on him.

He rolls slowly onto his side and shades his eyes with a single hand. Uneven, dirt-covered pavement runs up underneath him. Cardboard boxes, sagging and stained, lean precariously around him. Cans and bottles litter the ground. Eames’ mind fixes on the lack of food on the ground – no rotting bags of garbage, no discards or vomit from the bar. Perhaps, he imagines wildly, some great beast came along in the middle of the night and ate up everything edible on the ground. Eames may be lucky to still be here, not half digested by a giant, air-swimming whale.

The headache hasn’t gone away, and Eames’ jaw muscles are screamingly sore, but there’s nothing for it. He has to get home, back to his apartment. Darkness might help. He sits up, pushing against the wall behind him.

Suddenly, he remembers the young man from the bar, so slim and striking and intense, who vanished like a fever-dream. A few metres away, at the end of the alley, silhouetted by the sun, stands a slim, suited figure. Eames stares.

He _knows_ that this is the young man he spotted in the bar last night. The man turns, his features highlighted against the sun for a moment, and he glances at Eames. He feels a pang of something, looking at the man. He’s so young, and yet there is something off about him, something cold. Eames desperately wants to figure him out. The young man’s gaze sweeps up and down Eames, lingering on his jaw.

He smiles slightly, soft. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Sore?” he asks, voice wry and turned sharper by an American accent.

It jolts Eames, silencing any reply that he might have made. He gapes and the young man seems to realize his lapse; his features shut down, go still, and he turns, pushing off the wall he leaned against. He steps out of the alley and into the crowded street, and within three steps is gone.

Eames lurches to his feet. His head throbs, sending him stumbling against the opposite wall in the alley. He takes a deep breath and pauses, and as the dizziness fades, he moves after him. Had the man been watching over him? Observing him for future reference? Aside from that brief moment, it’d been near impossible to puzzle him out. He must catch up with him.

In a few long steps his is on street. The crowd parts and swirls around him, well-dressed men walking to work, less-dressed men selling things and yelling loudly, robed women slipping unnoticed between them all. His head throbs again, less so this time, and Eames pushes the pain of his headache away to look around.

It takes a tense moment, but there, metres away down the street. The young man’s dark hair glints in the sunlight, neat and immaculate He looks around, eyes constantly moving over the crowd, and Eames catches glimpses of his pale skin. It’s him, it must be him.

Eames pushes through after him, fighting the surge of the crowd, gaining no distance on the man, as far he can tell. Then the man turns, and disappears into a dark alley. Eames looks at the alley entrance, memorizing the details of the buildings surrounding it – the pattern of wires that fall down the side of the left-hand building, intricately looping and knotting so that they appear to be some new and artificial genus of plant, the flashing sign for a small shop that hangs precariously over the alley’s edge, unreadable and foreign – and then pushes forward, using all his determination to get through the crowd.

After that, it doesn’t take him long – perhaps three more minutes – to reach the alley entrance. Beyond, it’s dark, close and shadowed by buildings, and Eames pauses. He can’t see anyone within, not even after allowing his eyes to adjust. The headache is fading, though his jaw throbs with every beat of his heart, and he lunges forwards into the darkness.

The alley is narrow, much narrower than the one he woke up in. The walls are so close to his shoulders that if he moves too hastily the rough rock of the walls tears at his thin jacket, cutting at the skin. Eames slows, scrutinizing everything around him. Up ahead, he finally spots the young man, just a darker shadow really, but recognizable by his slim body and stiff stance. Eames keeps moving, one foot in front of the other, until he is just a metre away, and can discern the man’s features.

Shadows circle his eyes and cheekbones, clinging to the corners of his mouth. He looks anything but familiar to Eames; now, he appears in fact, quite otherworldly. Eames can only think of saying ‘hello’, which of all the words in the world that he could use, sounds silly and pathetic.

The young man speak, and his face remains stiff, of stone. “What do you want?”

Eames misses the half smile that he glimpsed just a moment ago. He wants it back – he wants to make it swell and crack open the mask the young man’s put on. He swallows, and considers. What _does_ he want?

“What’s your name?”

The man turns and walks away, stopping by a dark doorway. He glances back at Eames for an instant and replies, “Arthur,” so soft that Eames believes he has misheard. And then, the young man has pushed the door open and vanished into a spill of golden light. The light narrows to a sliver and disappears with a click.

Eames arrests his hand mid-movement, reaching out for _something_. He flushes, feeling the embarrassment pound through his sore jaw, and follows.  
Eames catches the door handle shoves the door open; it sticks, but gives when he leans on it – he wonders how Arthur opened it so effortlessly.

Inside it is brighter – Eames stands in an entry hall so slim, he could reach out and touch the walls if he chose. The floor and walls are covered in cream tiles, which may once have been white, but have darkened for the better over the years. In the center of the small room a spiral staircase curls up, caged by wrought iron in the shape of an intricate banister. He follows it upwards with his gaze and spies a skylight several floors above, grimy glass sending brown and white light cascading down on everything below. It all glows, and is unexpectedly lovely.

Arthur heads up the stairs, nimbly stepping up and up as if it’s no effort at all. His steps echoes down to Eames, fast and rhythmic. Eames moves after him, and after only three turns of the stairs, feels the strain on his thighs.

Luckily, it takes one more turn before Eames stops, confronted by Arthur. He is eerily still – does the man practice that, or is it innate, the ability to mimic classical statuary – his gaze intent on Eames, who promptly smothers his heavy breathing and tries to project calm. He has an instant to take in the sight of the man’s suit – different from last night’s, dress shirt darker than his suit, deep brown jacket and trousers of a strictly tailored linen that remains mystifyingly unwrinkled, and a light brown tie that shines, likely made from silk.

Arthur turns, revealing a door set into the wall behind him – which is unlocked, for he pushes it open and walks inside. Eames follows him up the last few steps, breathing somewhat steady, and into the room beyond. It’s a small and beautifully worn apartment.

Beyond the entry, there is a living room with a small worn couch in the middle, facing a wide window with dark iron bars crossed on the outside. Arthur walks straight through it all, paying little heed. This must be his apartment. Quietly thrilled by the honor, Eames rushes to catch up with him.

A bedroom. The sun slants in through a long window on the opposite wall, casting lengthy shadows. Arthur has stripped off his jacket, folded it along the back center seam, and laid it over a chair. Wrapped around his shoulder is what appears to be a leather strap of some kind, and when he turns around Eames sees that it’s a gun holster, heavy gun nestled therein.

In a single fluid motion, Arthur reaches up, pulls the gun from its holster, takes two steps forward, and presses the muzzle to Eames’ forehead. Eames goes so still that he forgets how to move at all. His thoughts stutter. He has seen guns – briefly, and only on the persons of his parents’ bodyguards. He has never touched a gun, and certainly never been held at gunpoint – although it was only a manner of time, in this profession. He swallows hard, pupils dilating and making everything seem bright and hard-edged.

Arthur’s own eyes are dark, the iris a brown so deep they seem to pool into his pupils. He looks hungry.

Eames gathers his senses enough to lick his lips and whisper, “What?”

Arthur smiles at him faintly, a feral smile that Eames _hates_ , his teeth glinting. “You asked for my name.”

 _And?_ Eames thinks but doesn’t say, so focused is he on Arthur and the slim finger he holds steady over the trigger.

Arthur doesn’t elaborate, but reaches forward, placing a hand on Eames’ breast. He runs it down, over the muscles of his stomach and then up the other side of his chest. He skims over Eames’ left arm, then his right.

“Why did you want to know my name? Why are you looking for me?”

Arthur’s voice is deliberately disinterested. He steps closer, sliding the muzzle of the gun around so that it is presses tight against Eames’ temple and his body presses directly up against Eames’. Eames tries to think of an answer to the question, a clear answer that has nothing to do with intuition and whimsy and _curiosity_ , but comes up blank. Arthur moves his hand to the small of Eames’ back, pressing down against his waistband and slipping his hand down just beneath it for a moment, brushing the top of Eames’ arse crack. Eames exhales and shifts forward, face so close to Arthur’s. The gun digs into his temple and he stills.

“What do you want from me?”

Arthur’s hand travels up his back, tracing his spine and shoulder blades. He moves the gun again, in a single movement Eames can barely see, the muzzle nestling under Eames’ chin. Arthur looks up at him, slowly crouching. Eames’ fear is fading. Arthur won’t kill him now – he could have done so anytime; in the alley when Eames was unconscious, in the crowd where confusion would have rendered the kill anonymous. No, he allowed Eames to follow him. Eames has a feeling that this bit is merely a _formality_. But in what profession?

Eames can’t stay silent and let Arthur search him like this – never mind that he won’t find anything. Eames has never carried weapons, and everything of value that he has is back at the apartment.

“I—“ he clears his throat and focuses, “I was interested.”

“What?” Arthur snaps.

He brushes his hand across the fastenings of Eames’ trousers and then lower, skirting the inside of his thighs and calves. With a firm grip, he circles Eames’ ankle, running his fingers up the bones of each in turn. Eames looks up, daring to move his chin as far from the gun as possible to mask his growing arousal.

“Damn it all, I was curious about you, interested from the first moment I saw you.” He bites down on the rest of the traitorous words that want to slip out and embarrass him.

Arthur stands, mere inches from Eames’s face, eyes cold and lips parted.

“What is your name?”

A thrill runs through Eames, and he fights back a wild smile. “Eames.”

Arthur makes a sound not so much audible as visceral, “ _hmmm_ ,” and steps back, lowering the gun. Eames bows his head and takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his hands. Across the room, there is a _clunk_ and he looks up to see Arthur’s hand leaving the gun, now resting the side table. He is loosening his tie slowly.

Eames’ own shirt is half un-tucked and his trousers are filthy with the dirt of both yesterday and today, plus a night of lying in the street unconscious. He feels dirty, _unclean_ next to Arthur. He lunges forward, grapping Arthur’s wrist as it slips the silk of his tie off his neck and pushes him back, toward the bed across the room. Arthur is nimble, he twists and nearly slips away, braced against the floor, but Eames is quick as well, and heavier to boot; he reaches out to snatch at Arthur’s waist, and with a mighty heave throws him onto the bed.

Arthur lands on his side before catching himself and turning over, propping himself up onto his elbows, giving Eames the coldest look imaginable. Eames wants to hit him, kick out at him, or perhaps just tie him to the bed and leave him there. Eames wants his _smile_. But he’s not the type for violence – last night was more fighting than he’d seen since his schooldays.

He turns away and grabs Arthur’s gun. He wants it out of here. He wants Arthur away from it’s influence. He doesn’t know what to do with it, really, so he simply takes the heavy handle, holds his fingers away from the trigger, and walks away. He hears the bed creak as Arthur shifts behind him, and glances back. Arthur is watching him, gaze intent on the gun and lips slightly parted. Eames keeps moving.

He’s going to throw the gun away – or perhaps not, perhaps he will just place it somewhere and avoid the risk of an accidental misfire. A hand on his arm stops him halfway across the room. Eames spins and Arthur catches his wrist, slipping the gun from his hand and tossing it onto the side table with a sliding _thunk_. Eames winces. Arthur’s hand comes up to his face and pulls at his jaw so that he is looking into his dark eyes, alight with amusement. He forgets the gun, and kisses Arthur.  
Arthur shifts, body arching into Eames’, and Eames curls in to match him, hungry for more. Arthur tastes so clean, until he bites down on Eames’ lip, hard, and the tang of copper fills his mouth. Eames growls and wraps his arms around Arthur, pulling him closer. Arthur’s fingers dig into the flesh of his arms.

Arthur steps backward, pulling Eames along in their kiss, until his legs hit the edge of the bed and he drags Eames down with him.

He falls over Arthur, barely catching himself on the palms of his hands. The bed creaks and shifts underneath them, and for a moment Eames fears that it will give out under them; a rush of exhilarated fear runs through him. He opens his mouth wide and kisses Arthur deeper, their tongues tangling. Arthur’s eyes are open, watching him, and Eames lets his own fall closed.

The kiss is hard and desperate, wonderful in a way that Eames can’t recall any other kiss being. Arthur’s body is hard underneath him, the thin linen of his shirt provides no buffer between them. Eames reaches up, and moves a hand to Arthur’s head, running his fingers through the soft hairs at the back of Arthur’s neck.

Arthur’s face twists, pleasure opening his features in a gasp of surprise, and then he shuts down again, anger tugging at the corners of his mouth. He glares at Eames, who laughs, delighted. He broke through, _finally_. Eames nuzzles Arthur’s neck, biting the skin there and pulling his shirt open. It slides from the waist of his trousers and Arthur moves, shimmying up, further onto the bed. It doesn’t come off. He pulls harder at Arthur’s shirt and feels it stretch for an instant, before giving with a loud rip.

Eames pulls back to look at Arthur, who doesn’t seem to mind the ruin of a lovely shirt and lies still, pale chest vulnerable to Eames’ hungry gaze. Not a scar on him. Eames climbs onto the bed fully and runs the tips of his fingers down Arthur’s abdomen, mocking Arthur’s earlier search of him, sending shivers through Arthur’s akin and his fingers curling. He lies there, lips parted and eyes dark, watching Eames. Slowly, without shifting his expression, Arthur pulls his legs in and around Eames’. He tightens them, pulling Eames closer, gasping and holding himself above Arthur in a last attempt at moderation.

Arthur reaches up and runs his hand up Eames’ neck, skimming the edges of a trimmed nail around the shell of Eames’ ear, then up into his hair where his hand clenches. Eames gasps at the harsh, delightful grip, and Arthur pulls him down slowly, until his lips are just inches away.

Arthur arches up, just brushing against Eames’ his cock. Eames bows down and kisses him, open-mouthed and hot, as mere weather cannot hope to be. Pleasure floods him, stealing his thoughts and loosening his muscles, sending him down against Arthur, tighter until not an inch remains between them. Then breathe in rhythm. Eames’ cock jumps against Arthur’s, a pulse of sensation expanding through him, fisting his hands in the sheets and drawing them closer, bunching around the two of them. Arthur purrs and shifts, hips jerking, mouth open and slipping across Eames’ cheek.

Arthur reaches down and his fingers fumble at the button of Eames’ trousers. He alternately strokes Eames and himself and plays with the fastening, and Eames licks the lobe of his ear, laving it with his tongue, fucking it slowly. Finally Arthur figures out the button, and pushes his trousers and pants down and away from Eames’ cock.

He strokes it, fingers skilled and nimble, and Eames braces himself more firmly on the bed, arms trembling with the effort. His hips jerk harshly into Arthur’s hand. Arthur hisses and moves against him. His nails catch at Eames’ balls and he shivers, gasping. Then Arthur grips the shaft of his cock fully, and begins to squeeze, using his grip on Eames’ hair to draw him down and closer. Pain shoots through his head, starting at the roots of his hair, tangling around his jaw, clashing with his arousal and dizzying him.

They kiss once more, not thinking of anything. Eames pants into Arthur’s mouth, fighting with his tongue, lips bruising each other, just _feeling_ him. Arthur gives his cock a long, tight stroke, and Eames closes his eyes, buries his forehead in the curve of Arthur’s neck, and comes.

He is boneless, needless. Arthur pushes him to the side, rolling Eames off him and onto the bed. He turns his head and opens his eyes. Arthur lies next to him, staring silently at the ceiling, lips parted and breath heavy. Eames reaches over and slides a bare hand down his chest.

Arthur turns to look at him, and his eyes are desperate, vulnerable.

\---

They may have fucked for hours or slept for hours – Eames doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter. The day has waned while they sweated together, indoors on the bed, and the light flooding the bedroom has turned orange and gray and pink, all sunset tones. Eames stands at the door to the bathroom, leaning against the frame watching Arthur. He’s produced a needle and thread from somewhere, and sits on the edge of the bed in only an undershirt, sewing buttons back onto the dress shirt.

He watches Arthur weave the needle in and out of his linen shirt, smooth and effortless, and wonders why the man doesn’t simply dig through his closet and pull another one out to wear. Surely the mending can wait just a bit. A television sits on a dresser across the room – turned on, flickering and weak, so quiet that it could be on mute. Arthur doesn’t even seem to be watching it.

Eames can’t help but admire Arthur’s casual beauty – the curve of his bowed neck, the lightly burnt skin at the outside of his ear, the hair that falls out of place and curls over his eyes. Eames doesn’t know him, not really, but he still feels a warm possessiveness as he gazes at Arthur’s back. It’s a fondness that’s probably a terrible idea, something that’ll get him into trouble like all his other liaisons, but he can’t help it. The man is, truly, _beautiful_ , and Eames doesn’t want to let him go.

Arthur straightens, pulls the invisible thread taut and bites it, snapping the needle free. He stands and slips the dress shirt on, shrugging it into place over his shoulders.

Eames looks for his clothes. He threw them off, tired and careless when he’d woken earlier, and he regrets the action now. He’ll have to scramble around the room nearly naked picking them up. And no matter how fond he is of Arthur, that really is embarrassing. He sighs. He fixes his gaze on his own shirt, pooled on the floor half hidden under the bed.

The towel hangs low on his hips as he skirts across the room, going for stealth. Arthur pays him no mind – he walks away, over to the side table, and picks up his gun. Eames snatches the shirt from the floor and prepares to somehow get it on without it sticking to his still-damp skin, and without dropping the towel, when he pauses, staring.

The cuff of his shirt is stained with bright red. With blood. Eames has gone very cold, all of his post-coital satisfaction and warmth vanished. He reaches down to pull the bed skirt up and peer underneath. Dim sunlight flood the recess under the bed. He sees a single hand, pale palm facing up. Eames leans, very slowly, further down. A drop of blood has dried on one of the fingers, dark leaking through the finger’s cracks. He looks up.

Arthur has pulled a low-set chair over to the bed and is leaning back in it, feet up on the end of the bed, television running silently behind him – explosions, screaming faces. He is handling his gun, pulling it apart with little clicks, slotting pieces off, one after another, and inspecting them.

  


Eames looks back down at the hand, suddenly so _sure_ that Arthur killed its owner. The mattress is flying up, tipping and sliding off the box spring, throwing Arthur’s feet off it. The bed skirt and box spring go next, falling off the frame and hanging, homeless. Eames squints through the shadows, leaning against the mattresses and follows the dark line of the man’s arm, snaking up under the bed, leading to a curved shoulder and face, eyes glinting wide, darkness pooling under it. He doesn’t need to see the gunshot wound.

“Shit, shit, _fuck_ ,” but it isn’t him – it’s Arthur. He’s slamming the pieces of the gun back together and then abandons the action halfway though as Eames gapes at him.

He can’t help his surprise – Arthur is so _young_ , so lovely and composed. And he kills people? And the thought that this, that death is Arthur’s profession, makes him nervous. Was he hired by the SIS? By M? Has he been looking for Eames this whole time?

Arthur holds out his hands, unarmed, and sinks down on his knees. He leans forward, opening his mouth to speak, and Eames leans back. He can’t straighten out his thoughts, can’t reconcile _Arthur_ , with a killer. Arthur stops and sits back on his heels. His face contorts, dancing through emotions that Eames can’t hope to name.

“Look, it’s just business. I don’t do this… I’m paid for it, I was _hired_.”

Eames doesn’t respond.

“And goddammit, we needed someplace to go.”

Arthur is making excuses – not because he feels guilty of his murder, but because he doesn’t want Eames to feel guilty in turn. Eames is touched, in a way. He can tell by the worried set of Arthur’s mouth that he really cares about what Eames thinks.

And Eames still cares for him – when he looks at Arthur’s mouth he vividly recalls his deep kisses, when he sees the curve of his ear Eames remembers the caresses that he gave it. He wants that Arthur back, that Arthur that could gasp in pleasure and twist against him, that Arthur that seemed so young. Eames knows that it is the same Arthur he sees now, that the man Eames slept with had already killed.

He sits back, reaches up and pulls the mattresses forward with a heave before sitting down on it again. He keeps his back to Arthur and tries to reason through it all. An assassin. It doesn’t matter whether Arthur has killed once or a thousands times, he is still an assassin. An Eames seems irrevocably tangled up with him. He doesn’t think that Arthur has been hired – not for this, but why ten would he have involved himself with Eames?

Eames casts a glance around, and spies the rest of his clothes, crumpled on the floor. The towel around his hips has loosened, and sags. He feels cold, despite the heat of the day.

The mattress dips as weight settles on it behind him. Arthur moves closer, slowly, giving Eames time to move away. He doesn’t. Arthur rests a hand lightly on his shoulder and then leans forward, pressing against Eames’ back. He’s hot, firm, quite bracing. Eames leans back into him. He reaches back, running his hand through Arthur’s hair and loosening it – Arthur sighs against the back of his neck.

Damn it all. Eames turns and looks up, pulling Arthur down into a kiss. A man lies dead beneath the bed. Eames has stolen government technology, and is about to sell it to the highest bidder – a machine that could supposedly make real his wildest dreams. He kisses Arthur deeply, and Arthur kisses back, his hands coming up to pull Eames’ face closer, harshening the kiss.

Eames is moving to push Arthur back down onto the bed again when there is a slam and they both jump. Eames freezes, heart pounding. Arthur twists away and dives off the bed, snatching up the pieces of his gun and slamming them back together without looking. A shout echoes down the hall. Arthur peers out the bedroom door and levels his gun, both hands bracing the weapon.

Arthur casts a glance at Eames, who moves, snatching his trousers back off the floor and struggling into them. He stumbles behind Arthur and peers down the hall. A tall woman has just walked through the front door and laid her keys down on a side table.

She spies Arthur and lets out a strangled yell, reaching back towards the front door. Arthur barks out a single, harsh word and she chokes off, shoving her hands over against her mouth. Arthur begins to walk down the hall slowly, towards her, gun out. She backs away and to the side, into another room. Arthur doesn’t take his eyes off her.

Eames is shirtless, cursing the fact that he didn’t dress right after the shower. He spots Arthur’s jacket to the side, still folded over a chair. He’ll want it, Eames supposes. He snatches it, throws it over his shoulders, and follows.

Arthur moves closer and closer to the door, and now Eames is right with him. Together, they reach the door. The woman has disappeared into the next room. Arthur pauses, then steps backwards through the door and is gone. Eames darts out the door after Arthur. He slams it after him. Arthur is nowhere in sight, so he heads down the stairs, wincing as the metal presses harshly into the unprotected soles of his feet.

In the small foyer at the base of the stairs, Arthur waits. His gun has disappeared and his hands clasped behind his back. Eames smiles at him broadly, heart pounding at the excitement. Arthur just watches him, intent.

“You forgot this.”

Eames pulls the jacket off his shoulders and offers it to him.

“Thank you,” Arthur replies. He moves to reach out and then pauses, looking Eames over once, slowly, from head to toe. “You can keep it. I believe you need it more than I do.”

It’s true. Eames’ shirt is gone, left in the apart, along with everything but his trousers. He shrugs it on, grateful that it’s only slightly snug. His smile is soft now, when he looks back to Arthur.

Arthur is smiling back, eyes soft and mouth barely curved. It’s beautiful. His lips part, breathless. Arthur reaches out and touches his wrist just barely, with the tips of his fingers. Eames almost reaches out and pulls him close; he wants to feel the thud of Arthur’s heart against his skin. A shriek rips through the stairway, coming from several flights up. The woman has found the body.

Eames drags his gaze away from the stairs. Arthur has paused with the door to the alleyway half open. The smile is still half on his face. Then he turns and slips away, and the door clicks shut.

Eames stares at the closed door for a moment; the shouting above is growing louder, more panicked. He needs to leave; he’s got to get out of here and back to his apartment. He should check on the PASIV. Get rid of it, so that he can go after Arthur once more. He walks out the door barefoot and loses himself in the crowds.

 

\---

 

Eames waits several days before leaving his apartment again, subsisting only on cured meats, bread, and the few fruits he snatched from the market he passed through before he reached the apartment building. He manages.

He has tried to call M, arrange a meeting so that he can sell the PASIV to the man, but the phone number he called previously now seems invalid. So he’s forced to wait on Mr M’s will, cell phone by the bed in case of a call. The room is sweltering; Eames turns on the creaky, rusted fan he found discarded by the back of the building – but which still works perfectly well – and then aimed at the bed.

He lies on top of the sheets, wearing only soft cotton briefs and a button-down shirts, sleeves rolled up past his elbows the buttons unbuttoned. He stares at the ceiling, not so much counting the cracks as watching the shadows shift.

There has been a heat wave, and despite Eames’ expectations, it can indeed get hotter in this city. He has decided that lying on the bed, taking infrequent showers, and sleeping with the soft breeze of the fan blowing over him is the best way to cope. It doesn’t help that he can’t seem to stop thinking about Arthur. He can’t push away the vivid memory of Arthur’s skin, hot against his, and Arthur’s shirt ripping under his fingers. He doesn’t want to move and satisfy this desire, however temporarily. It’ll only make him more sweaty, as he knows from experience.

He smiles, imagining when all this is over, the PASIV sold, how he’ll hunt Arthur down and show up at the door to his apartment. How he’ll lean there, watching Arthur do something completely inconsequential until Arthur notices that he’s there and turns, surprised, and smiles.

The phone rings next to his head, a sharp squeal. He jerks in place, and then flips over scrambling for it.

\---

Three hours later, Eames is ready. He’s showered, combed his hair back – though it seems determined to keep falling forward into his face – and dressed in the only clean clothes left, an orange-brown dress shirt, light brown trousers, and a brown belt. All in all, he feels as if he need only stand still, and no one will ever find him in this desert.

He makes a quick foray onto the roof to retrieve the PASIV and winces at the heat of the metal case – a sun-baked roof may not have been the best place to hide it, in retrospect. He idly hopes nothing inside has melted or putrefied. After sitting inside for a bit, the case has cooled enough that Eames can tuck it under his arm and act casual.

He leaves the apartment building, following the directions that M gave him over the phone earlier. It doesn’t sit well in his stomach that M knew his apartment’s location so exactly. Five blocks east, three blocks south, and two blocks northeast brings him to the destination. It’s a tall hotel, not particularly modern, but definitely clean, in the section of the city where dingy apartment buildings (like his own) and tiny restaurants begin to give way to hotels and big businesses.

The lobby is thrillingly air conditioned, and Eames smiles broadly at the older man behind the reception desk. “Hello, my name is Darling. I’m here…” He trails off as he realizes that he has no idea what moniker M is registered under here.

But the receptionist just nods and stands, saying in heavily accented English. “You are expected. Please follow me.” He leads Eames to a set of elevator doors and quickly punches in a code on a pad next to them. The doors slide open and he steps inside. Eames hesitates, and then follows. The man pushes a button and the steps out. The doors close as he walks away.

Eames looks down at the panel in the wall. Eighth floor. This is all very…impressive. And very foreboding. Eames has no idea how he’s going to get out of the building, especially is he has to make a quick exit. This is a bad idea – he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t have accepted the first offer. He’s been so very, very foolish. He pulls the PASIV close to his chest.

The elevator slows, and the doors slide open. Eames waits until the doors begin to close before jumping out into the hall. He takes the PASIV’s handle and drops the case down by his side, taking a deep breath. He’ll see this through. He glances down the hall, and despite the number of doors that line it, sees only one that could belong to M. At the very end of the hall is a closed door, with a tall guard standing next to it in a dark suit. He walks down and past the guard, knocking firmly. His spine crawls at the guard’s gaze on him.

Eames plasters a false smile on his face as the door swings open. Another guard stands there, blocking the entrance.

“Mr Darling, here to see Mr M.“

The guard steps aside and Eames walks through the door. He hears it close behind him, and strides down the long hall of what is obviously a suite, away from the finality of the sound.

He reaches a large room, wide windows covering an entire wall and sending bright sunlight pouring across the neat furniture and the man sitting on the sofa. He is nondescript, dark hair and equally dark suit, with a white dress shirt underneath. The light glows around him, and he turns at offers a smile to Eames.

“Mr M,” Eames says, gathering himself and holding out his left hand to shake.

The man stands fluidly and walks forward, not even blinking at Eames’ hand before shaking it in turn. “Mr Darling.” His voice is deep and pleased. It’s the same man Eames spoke to on the phone.

He gestures to the sofa. “Please sit down,” he says, and waits for Eames to settle into the cushions before sitting opposite.

“May I have something brought for you? Tea? Coffee?”

“No, no, I’m all right.” Eames looks out the window at the roofs of the city – he’s never been so high in all his time here. “Thank you, though.”

“I suppose you would prefer to speak of business.”

“Ah, yes.” Eames swings the heavy suitcase up, catching it with his other hand and settling it softly down onto the glass table between them with a click. He leans forward and turns the case around until it faces M.

M reaches for the handles of the case and Eames lets him, leaning back and watching. M’s hands tremble. The locks click open and, with a sigh, the PASIV’s lid rises. M leans close, gaze avid.

Eames’ gaze wanders as he waits. Across the room, directly behind the sofa M is sitting on, a doorway is partially open. It seems to lead into a bedroom; Eames can see the foot of a bed in the room beyond. He nearly looks away, uninterested, before his attention is aught and held. The sheets are bunched, and a very expensive pair of shoes - their smooth-worn soles covered with the light dust of the city - sit upon the bed on their heels, as if someone is lying there fully clothed.

Eames glances back down at M. No explanation is popping to mind; it seems a bit odd to him. Perhaps another guard? But something seems off about the whole thing, in particular the presence of dust-covered shoes on expensive white sheets. He looks away. The best option would probably be to not notice the open door at all.

M looks up and shut the PASIV. He smiles at Eames.

“Very good. We have a deal.”

He waves past Eames, and the guard from the front door walks over, a small hefty suitcase in his arms. He leans down and passes the suitcase to M. On top of it is a slim folder. M places both on the table, leaving his hand resting on top of them.

“I have your payment here, Mr Darling. But first we must conclude the final details.”

What details? Eames freezes.

M smiles again, predatory. “I require your expertise.”

“Mr M, please, I don’t have any ah, ‘expertise’ with this Device. I’ve told you, I can’t help you.”

“Oh, but I think you can.” M flips open the slim folder resting on top of Eames’ payment, revealing a large, magnified photograph. It is Eames, sitting on the plane that had taken him to this city. Reading the PASIV’s manual. “You see, Mr Eames, you have all the expertise I require.”

Eames’ breath stops. He is standing over M, who peers up at him almost innocently. “I can’t help you,” he hears himself say, distantly. He turns to make for the front door. If he’s calm, he should be able to get away. They can’t just _kidnap_ him.

He’s forgotten the guard, though. The man is blocking the entrance to the hall that leads out, a gun drawn and held steady, muzzle over Eames’ chest. “You will not die quickly,” he warns Eames in a low voice.

Eames turns back and lowers himself onto the sofa. He stares at M. “What do you want?”

His smile broadens to a full grin and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He lifts the PASIV and walks around to the other side of the sofa, pausing by the half-open door. Eames’ stomach churns; he _knew_ there was something wrong with it, with the man on the bed within. Eames stands and follows, not looking at the guard behind him but feeling him.

M pushes the door open and walks into the bedroom.

Eames nearly trips over himself in surprise. The man lying on the bed, is tied to it, and gagged. It’s Arthur.

His jacket has been removed, his black tie pulled up to his mouth and tightened as the gag. Thick ropes fasten his ankles and arms to the bedposts. His head is propped up on a pillow, and as he watches Eames and M walk into the bedroom, his eyes are calm. He doesn’t seem worried at all, but Eames is more than worried for both of them. How did M find out about them? What will he force Arthur to do? For a dizzying instant he thinks he’s going to vomit, and then it passes. He forces thought away to stay calm, and looks back at M.

“I had hoped to have more time to learn about this beautiful machine,” he says, and flips the PASIV open. He reaches down and, with the utmost tenderness, strokes the top of the delicate mechanisms. “But I was, unfortunately, quite wrong.”

He turns to Eames, and his smile looks mad, possessed.

“You see,” he spares a careless gesture for Arthur, “this man was hired to kill me.” He leans down over Arthur, and strokes his hand over Arthur’s cheek. “I’ve heard of you, Arthur. Not as skilled as I was led to believe.”

Eames clenches his hand into a fist, the nails digging into the palm. He glances at the door. The guard stands by the frame, stiff, gun held by his side. Eames would bet that it had been a lot harder to pin Arthur down than M wants him to believe. He swallows.

“What do you want from me?”

“I will be using this Device upon the assassin. I will be…dreaming with him.” He looks up and gives Eames a canny look. “My man here will make sure that I am not harmed – he will not hesitate to maim you, if necessary.”

The man beckons him forward, and Eames contemplates snatching the lamp from the bedside table, lifting it and killing the man right there. He doesn’t dare, though.

Eames walks to the bed and leans over the PASIV. He flips open the instruction booklet to remind himself of what to do – he never actually thought that he would be _using_ it. As he glances over the illustrations, a terrible thought comes to mind? This thing is a joke. It will probably not work, and what then? Will he be shot along with Arthur? Will the machine simply…malfunction, and kill them both?

He glances at Arthur and steadies himself by the man’s gaze. Fucking hell. He’ll get through this. He’ll get them both through it.

He reaches into the case, unhooks the needles, and pulls them out; the thin rubber tubes attached to them unravel as well. He separates two and presses the rest of the needles back inside. M is rolling up his shirtsleeve.

Eames turns to Arthur. He is staring at him, eyes dark. Eames doesn’t know what to do – whether he should say something to him, whether he can do anything for him. But as he reaches for Arthur’s arm, Arthur rolls it over, revealing the inside of his elbow for Eames. He blinks at him once, slowly.

Eames presses a button inside the machine and watches the tubs as fluid rolls through them, beginning to leak slowly from the top. He doesn’t want to kill Arthur with air in the line.

M is crouching besides the bed. He’s folded up his coat and laid it onto the floor by the side table. He is straightens the crease of his trousers. Eames picks up one of the needles and hands it to him. The man raises an eyebrow at him before shifting, settling down on the floor with his head pillowed on the folded jacket. The tube from the PASIV easily reaches him.

Eames lifts the second needle and reaches for Arthur’s arm. Arthur doesn’t move, simply watching Eames’ fingers skirt across his skin. They linger on the delicate skin at the crook of Arthur’s elbow, before bringing the needle quickly down and slipping it into a vein. He doesn’t think about it.

He looks down, and watches M search for his own vein. Eames glances at Arthur, and sees that he has already closed his eyes. He’s not asleep, not yet. He’s waiting. Eames watches him for a long moment. Will the machine kill him? Will Eames be killing him when he presses that enter button? His gaze shifts to it for an instant before he forces it away.

He hears a sigh and sees that M has just placed his own needle in his arm. He looks up at Eames, who won’t wait any longer. He reaches over to the PASIV and presses down the center button. The machine sighs. Eames watches as M’s eyes flutter closed. Arthur goes relaxed, and his hands relax in their bonds.

The guard at the door stays stiff, his eyes on M. Eames watches them closely as well. They breathe deeply, completely relaxed. Eames watches Arthur, watches him sleep. Neither of them is dying. They are relaxed and calm, and whole. Eames sighs. This isn’t a joke, then. This PASIV is real. Arthur and M are living in dreams.

Eames stays still for a few more seconds. He can’t just wait here, let M go after Arthur in his dreams – Arthur doesn’t know what this machine does, how it works. Even Eames barely knows that, but at least he knows _something_. His hand rests lightly on the machinery, feeling its gentle pulse and flow. He fingers a curled tube.

Behind him, the guard shifts, relaxing slightly and stepping forward, peering at M. He must be curious, Eames thinks. Well, good. He smiles; curiosity. The guard isn’t looking at Eames anymore. He lunges forward, snatching up the lamp from the bedside table and spinning, low, using all his weight and momentum to slam the base of the lamp into the guard’s stomach.

The breath whooshes out of the man and he stumbles back, gun coming up to shoot. Eames keeps moving, and hits him across the head before he can pull the trigger. The blow isn’t enough to kill the man, thank god, but he sways, falling to his knees and then to the floor.

Eames stops still, breathing hard. He lets the lamp fall from his hands, and steps back to the bed. He reaches for the PASIV, and his hands are shaking. He shakes them out, but it doesn’t help. He pulls the tubing and needle out, briefly looking for air in the line. The guard on the floor groans. Eames looks at him, then back to the needle.

He’s going to die today. The guard will wake, and shoot him through the head. He imagines the chock of pain, an instant of wakefulness with his brains and bone sprayed across the sheets. He holds the needle against the crook of him arm and slips it in, heedless of a vein.

Dying in a dream. Most people can only wish for that. The thought doesn’t assuage the icy fear that sweeps through him as his vision grays and he slumps down across the bed, across Arthur, watching to the last the figures prone on the floor.

\---

Eames is standing on a city street in London. He smiles and closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath and thinking, _home_. A car whizzes by, far too fast for this congested city, and close enough that Eames feels the wind of its passing. He whirls around, but there’s no car there. And this isn’t London. He looks around. It is quiet, far too quiet. He can’t see any other people around, and neither can he hear them. It’s all very wrong.

He shades his eyes against the orange light that floods the city and looks up, trying to see clearly the buildings around him. It’s impossible. The buildings are off, and very strange. They’re tall like in all modern cities, but they curve unexpectedly, shining and coiling into the sky like snakes. What _is_ this?

The light curls and reflects off the buildings as if they are mirrors. Eames stares up at them, wondering at their strangeness – if only he could figure out exactly what it was that made this place so wrong, but it just didn’t come to mind – when he hears a deep noise, an almost subsonic thumping that tingles at the tips of his fingers and deep inside his chest.

Eames turns slowly, feeling for the thrum, the deep bass beat he can barely feel. He pauses – it’s coming from his left. He peers at the bases of the buildings, skirted by shadow, but he can’t see a thing. He begins to walk toward the noise.

As he moves, the sound slowly grows, swelling and rebounding off the buildings. It sounds like music, wild and unfamiliar. Eames moves close to the base of a building and reaches out as he walks. The building is glass, cool and smooth, shuddering under his fingertips with the music’s beat. He watches his reflection shiver as he walks. He can’t see inside the building at all. Three buildings further, and the music has built to a resounding clash. Eames can almost watch the buildings dance, if he looks up.

He stops, and peers cautiously around the corner. Beneath the next building there is a dark hollow, with a neon sign in scrolling Arabic script above it. There are a few tall men standing around the entrance, chatting and smoking, The music seems to originate therein. It seems like a bar, or club of some sort. Eames sighs. This is familiar, if not completely recognizable. His nervousness begins to fade.

Finally, a clue as to his location. He thinks back, remembering the small North African city that he’s been living in. But ha can’t recall whether this is a part of that city. It must be. Why is he so forgetful? What’s happened to him? It’s driving him half mad. He’ll go over and talk to the men in the club, perhaps. Maybe then he’ll get some answers. He flexes his shoulders and neck, straightens, and begins to walk around the corner.

Then a hand seizes his arm in a sharp grip and spins him around. Eames’ breathing seizes and he swallows a loud gasp. He panics and lashes out, swinging his fist at the man behind him. Then he pulls the punch, halfway through, because the man is familiar, beautiful, and as he catches Eames’ fist and holds it, Eames remembers his name – Arthur. Arthur’s other hand is lashing out, his eyes cold, and Eames catches a flash of a knife in his dark-gloved hand. He flinches away and reaches up, grasping Arthur’s wrist and pulling it over his shoulder and behind him. His own hand, still in Arthur’s grip, is near his face and so he reaches out, drawing his fingers over the line of Arthur’s jaw, and his lips.

“Arthur, Arthur,” he whispers, and watches as Arthur recognizes him and softens.

  


His lips part and Eames’ thumb slips inside. His own lips part and he loosens his grip on Arthur’s wrist, allowing his to draw the knife down and away, slipping it smoothly into a sheath. His grip on Eames’ wrist remains tight, pulling him closing. Eames moves in, feeling the music beat through him, watching his spit-slicked tongue draw a brief trail across Arthur’s cheek.

Arthur steps right up to him, curls an arm around Eames’ waist. Eames tilts his head, moving in to kiss him, but Arthur slips by, pressing his cheek against Eames’ and his lips against his ear. In a gasp between beats, when the music softly subsides, for an instant, he whispers, “Follow me,” and then pulls away. He darts away from Eames, away from the club and the men who could give Eames the answers, and Eames runs after him.

They walk up the streets until Arthur finds a slim gap between the buildings Eames hadn’t noticed before – an alleyway. They slip into it, where the gloaming light turns to deep amber and the ever-present throb of the music is muffled. Arthur grabs Eames and pulls him close. They are just inches apart but Arthur never stops looking around them, watching the openings of the alley.

“We’re dreaming,” he says, almost absentminded.

Eames blinks at him. “Sorry, what?”

Arthur looks at him, then. His gaze is shadowed. “We are dreaming.”

“How, how can we both—“ As Eames speaks, he remembers. The PASIV heavy in his grip, the unfurling of tubing and needle, the soft sigh of delicate mechanisms. It’s all dim and fuzzy, like a dream itself, though Eames realizes that he’s remembering reality. He turns to look at the building next to him, and runs a hand up its cold, hard wall. His lips part. It’s…so _real_. He wonders if he can change it, make everything less mad, now that he knows he’s dreaming. Before he can try, another memory springs up in his mind, vivid and unbidden.

He feels terror again, a sickness that starts in his heart, as he remembers lying on the bed and falling asleep, waiting for the guard he’d knocked out to wake up and kill him. He pulls his hand away from the glass building and tries to focus his thoughts. Dreaming. That…would explain the strangeness of everything. Looking around now, he doesn’t know how he ever thought that this was real.

But Arthur must sense his unease, because he sends Eames a keen look and asks, “What is it?”

“How do we wake up?” Eames asks, because it is the only thing that makes sense to ask, despite the fact that neither of them will wake again, he’s sure. He can’t tell Arthur that; he just can’t say it. _We’re going to die._

Arthur grimaces and looks at the end of the alley again. And goes very still. Eames turns to follow his gaze, “What?”

The is an unfamiliar man at the end of the alley – tall, like the men at the bar, and dressed in a black suit. He holds a cell phone to his ear and is talking into it, low, and staring right at Arthur and Eames.

“Fuck!” Arthur exclaims, grabbing Eames’ wrist in a gloved hand and running. Eames pulls away and runs after him, not willing to be dragged. When he glances back he spots more of the men standing by the club coming around the corner, cigarettes discarded and eyes keen.

The bass beat recedes behind them as they move, but the sound of footsteps grow louder. Eames catches up with Arthur and they slow to a walk, side by side. Eames glances at the glass labyrinth around them. The buildings have no visible joints or doors – just panes of glass that seem to rise up forever and lean over them both. No escape or place to hide.

Arthur, in his light linen shirt and dark tie, has his knife out once more, and a second one as well. He watches the streets and alleys around them, glancing back and forth as they pass, constantly moving to keep the knives ready. His shirt sticks to the small of his back in the odd, twilight heat. Eames begins imitating Arthur, looking up and down the alleys as well. He has no idea what’s happening.

“Why are we running?” he asks Arthur, and when he doesn’t respond Eames snatches at his shirt, throwing him slightly off balance. Arthur spares a moment to whirl towards Eames. His eyes are wild.

“Why are we _running_?”

Arthur returns to looking for the men following them.

“I ran into a few of them just before I found you, and they shot at me. Trust me, they’re not friendly.” He sends a bright look at Eames, though, belying the warning in his words. “But I _can_ kill them,” he finishes, and Eames had never wanted to kiss him more. He grins at Arthur, and Arthur sends him a quick, wild smile back.

They keep moving.

“We need to wake up,” Arthur says, “and you’re going to figure out how. I’ll keep us alive and moving.”

“I’ve no idea how to wake up!” Only how to sleep forever.

“Well, find a way. I can’t do everything, here.”

He’s right, but it can’t be the only way. “I can’t just pluck a solution out of thin air! Not even here!”

“We don’t have a choice. Try something – anything – before these people kill us for good.”

He turns away, leaving Eames dizzied by his words, and their implications. Is it possible that Eames won’t just die up above, shot, but also down here. If he dies here, will his mind fade away, leaving his body soulless and dumb for it’s last few moments? He heaves dryly, silently, clutching at nothing. Arthur is still moving, up ahead. He pulls himself upright and follows. This isn’t doing him any good; he can’t just worry and imagine circumstances that lead to madness. He wants to be _happy_ , if only in his last few moments. Just as Eames catches up to him, Arthur turns, wrist snapping out fluidly as he throws one of his knives. It skids along the edge of a building, leaving the glass vibrating slightly, almost singing.

One of the men following them falls, tumbling from around the corner – an impossible but brilliant throw on Arthur’s part – his arms outstretched across the cold ground. Arthur reaches back to his sheath and comes back with yet another knife. It’s almost as if he’s creating them. He settles in. Eames focuses half his attention on him and the other half on watching, wildly, for another man to appears from around any corner.

Arthur throws another knife, catching another one of the men. A shot is fired, missing them both wildly but resounding through the buildings. Arthur turns, throwing again at the corner of _another_ building, and a dark shadow falls, becoming solid.

“We can’t just stay here,” Eames hisses. He has no intention of simply sitting here, waiting to be picked off. They should keep moving. One of the men fires and a shot turns the ground to dust beside them. Eames flinches, and tugs on Arthur’s arm. He wrenches away, throwing a knife that skims against a building, cracking the glass and slamming into one of the men with a spray of bright blood.

Then Arthur turns, raises his eyebrows, and together they sprint away down an alley. They run down thin streets and alleyways, avoiding the main drags as much as possible. Eames doesn’t know where they’re going, where they might find just a hint of safety, but he doesn’t intend to die yet. He can’t stop.

At the edge of what seems to be the broadest street in the city, where weak sunlight pours down and bakes the ground, they are forced to pause and try to catch their breath. Even Arthur is panting, still alert. Leaning high above them, across the road, is the tallest building Eames has seen here. It casts no shadow.

And from every corner of the city, the men hunting them come. They all wear the same dark suits, and barely different from each other at all. They look, now that Eames thinks about it, quite a lot like M’s guards. Eames watches as many as he can, eyes flicking back and forth, waiting for them to come closer. Arthur drops out of his sight behind him; their arms brush gently. Eames is glad to know that Arthur is with him, that he’s watching as well. He wouldn’t rather be with anyone else..

All the men stop. They watch Arthur and Eames for a long moment before one man walks out of the group, conspicuously shorter than the others. It’s M, who seems perfectly comfortable among the men. Eames watches the men watch M, the steadiness of their gaze and the tenseness of their stance. He thinks that just maybe, M controls them. How is it that Eames and Arthur have no control here? Are there unwritten rules stating who is predator and who prey, when it comes to dreams?

M stops in the center of the square. Eames wants to back away, but he knows without looking that more of the men are behind them. M watches them. “I should have known you two would be _working together_.“

Eames smiles at him, sick inside and all bravado, “Of course we are.”

M returns the smile. “Not for long, I fear. You won’t wake from this dream, from _my_ dream.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as blink, but the men surrounding him step forward, raising their guns. “I will savor your blood on this ground.”

Arthur raises a knife and whirls, throwing it behind Eames. There is a strangled, gurgling gasp. Eames ducks, moving over close to a building, where at least one side of him is protected. One of the men raises his gun, just a meter from Eames and he steps forward, snatching at the gun and pulling the man off balance. He moves on instinct, slamming his knee into the man. He watches Arthur wield his knives, fighting three men over his man’s shoulder.

The man is fighting back, and lands a blow across Eames’ jaw. He pulls the man’s wrist out and hits it, hard. The man spasms and loses his grip on the gun. Eames snatches it, feels another hand grasping for him. He twists away and raises the gun, aiming for M. He’s never used a gun and has no idea how, but figures it can’t be terribly hard. He pulls the trigger.

A bullet cracks into the enormous building opposite at unimaginable speed. Eames curses as he realizes the he’s missed, hissing at the sting in his fingers. One of the men seizes him, twisting the gun away and his arms behind his back. He watches as thousands of white cracks begin to crawl across the glass building, traveling across the surface with a frizzle. Then Eames’ is wrenched away as the men bear him to the ground, covering him. He can see the black hole of a gun’s muzzle out of the corner of his vision.

A great shriek cuts across the city, a grinding tear that sends a shiver through Eames. The men freeze above him. Eames struggles to turn, to see what’s happening, but he can only see dark fabric. Then he hears the music of shattering glass, that high pitched crash, and freezes as well, knowing that that great, enormous building has begun to crack and crumble.

He can’t see Arthur. He doesn’t know what’s happened to Arthur. They shouldn’t be here. They should be running, far away before this building falls on them.

Eames wrenches at his arms, trying to pull away from the men. He hears Arthur cursing somewhere nearby, and for an instant is relieved. He’s still alive.

And with a roar, the building crumbles.

Eames can imagine it – enormous panes and shards of glass ripping free from the building’s confinement and hitting the grounds, shattering into a thousands smaller pieces that bounce up and fly through the air, cutting through the waiting men. He envisions Arthur’s curses falling silent and his lips part; his face slack and soft, trapped.

He doesn’t see Arthur die, but he hears it, the whir of flying glass and slick thuds. The falling glass roars up around them all like a wave, and Eames hears nothing else for a long time.

\--

The first thing that Eames hears is the soft click and grind of small pieces of glass falling into dust. The sound rings in his ears. Slowly, he peels his eyes open.

The men in dark suits are scattered all over, and the ones holding Eames are dead, their ghastly wounds open to the air. Eames pulls away from them, shoves them off on him. Bright blood pools on the ground and trails across his shirt. He wipes futilely at it. He hears groans behind him and moves forward, pushing bodies, and crouches next to Arthur.

Arthur is very still, and when Eames falls to his knees next to him he can see his face. It’s frozen - surprised, and very young. Eames’ hands clench into fists. It wasn’t supposed to be _him_. He feels the mad urge to reach out and take Arthur’s outstretched hand, to uncurl its fingers and lay it to rest on the ground. Instead, he slips a gun from his limp grasp (good on him, disarming at least one of them before the glass fell) and stands. It’s heavy, probably loaded. If he finds M still alive, he’ll empty every bullet into him.

Around him, dying men sigh. Many are already dead, eyes wide and faces twisted, but some still live, their hands clutching spasmodically at nothing and gazes the same. Eames picks his way out from among them and stands among the glass battlefield where most of the building hit. He looks up. Nearly three walls of the building still stand, glass groaning under the unequal weight and threatening to topple. Eames won’t move out of the way if it does.

Inside, the building is nothing, dark and empty. He’d expected to see _something_.

But as he moves closer he can see that on the building’s floor sits a small box. It’s small and compact, with a folding chair opened before it. Cautiously, Eames walks over to it and sits. It looks like a strongbox, all dark metal, but no lock. He reaches out and throws the top open.

The box is a foot deep, and at the bottom sits a few sheets of paper. He reaches in and picks the up, laying the gun in his lap and pulling the papers close. On the very top is a photograph, black and white. A small girl lies on dry ground; she is naked, splotchy with dirt and something darker, likely blood. Her face is turned toward the camera, lifeless, dead eyes looking just beyond the lens. She is familiar, but Eames can’t place her.

Behind him, he hears a sudden groan, louder than all the rest, and a shout, “No!”

He lets the papers fall, scattering across the ground. He picks up the gun and whirls. That’s why the little girl was familiar. She looks just like M, like the man who must be her father. M’s hands clutch at his blood-soaked shirt and he sways on his feet, but he’s unmistakably alive.

Eames raises the gun and points it at him, steady.

“How dare you interfere, how dare you follow me down here, look, look at her…” M’s voice is breathy and weak, but Eames listens to every word.

“You started this. You dragged me into this – Arthur into it. You’re getting nothing less than you deserve.” Venom drips from Eames’ voice.

M stares at the papers scattered around Eames’ feet, his eyes desperate and uncomprehending. Eames doesn’t know what his story is with the young girl, is daughter, and he doesn’t care enough to find out. This is the man who trapped them in dreams, who sent men through the city hunting them. Without him, Arthur wouldn’t be dead, and Eames about to die. He squeezes the trigger convulsively. The bullet flies wide. M doesn’t even flinch.

The crack of it echoes through the buildings around them, and after a second’s silence Eames hears a shriek, as if of metal. He looks up and watches as the remaining glass of the building above him tears itself apart, and falls flashing upon him.

He doesn’t feel the shards cut straight through him.

\--

Eames’ death rides him, the ghost of imagined pain tweaking the edges of his muscles. He jerks, eyes flying wide and lips parting, staring in numb confusion at the ceiling. Is this Hell? Heaven? Another dream? And how can he ever tell which one he’s ended up in now?

He blinks, squinting against the bright light around him, and rolls onto his side. Which is apparently a bad decision, because the needle embedded into his arm shifts and begins digging through flesh in the wrong direction. He hisses and rolls onto his back again, feeling for the needle and drawing it slowly, teasingly out. He lets out a deep breath when it’s free.

There’s someone hovering above him, and Eames’ breath catches when he recognizes Arthur. “You’re alive?” His whisper is incredulous and needy.

Arthur nods. He’s alive.

That means…that Eames is alive as well. He smiles broadly, so relieved that he’s dizzy. He’s lying on a soft bed, his legs hanging off the end and Arthur crouched above him. He clenches his fingers in the sheets. _Alive._ But what about the guard waiting for him? He jolts upright, nearly slamming into Arthur. The guard is still lying on the floor, weak groans issuing from his mouth, grasping for a gun that is lying across the room. Then, it can only have been a few moments. A few moments, and a dream that seemed to last forever? He rubs his eyes. M is still out on the floor, and the guard insensible.

And he and Arthur are _alive_. He died in that dream, and he’s still alive. Breathing, worrying. His mind is racing through thoughts, skipping through them like he has never thought before. He feels wrung out and refreshed at the same time. And the light pouring in through the window and casting shadows on the far wall is just so beautiful.

He turns, quickly reaching up and grabbing Arthur, pulling him down. He doesn’t spare a single thought for Arthur’s gun, which seems to be pressing into his thigh, or Arthur’s delightfully startled expression, which vanishes into a smile against Eames’ lips. He kisses Arthur violently, so hard that their teeth click and Arthur laughs. It feels like the best and worst kiss ever.

It takes a long moment for his grin to fade. He looks down at M on the floor, still asleep. Tubing scrolls outward from the crook of his arm and the PASIC still sighs on the bed. Arthur stands, and Eames watches as he checks his gun, pulling the ammunition out and slotting it back in. He walks over to M, gun held loosely. Eames must make a noise, because Arthur looks up at him and raises his eyebrows.

“No, I just…sorry.” He doesn’t know what to say. Does he really want the man to die? Both he and Arthur are alive. He remembers the girl from the photograph, in the dream, and wonders if any of that was real. Arthur is still watching him, so he nods.

Arthur shoots M. Eames jerks. Blood begins to seep from beneath M’s hair, and his head slips to the side. He looks utterly peaceful. Arthur turns towards the guard.

Eames looks away; it’d been stupid to watch that death, and Arthur’s face straight after. It had been so cold, and yet, yearning. He hears the guard whisper something that could be, “No,” and then the second shot cracks out. He doesn’t flinch this time. He forces himself to look at the twist of the dead guard’s body, the empty reach of his hand.

Arthur turns. “Let’s go.”

Eames nods and pushes off the bed, careful to avoid the bodies. He pauses, mid act of following Arthur out the door, and looks back to the bed. The PASIV. He darts back to it and presses the button to shut it off, pulling on all the tubing and shoving it back into the machine. He can fix it later. Perhaps not all dreams are so terrible. Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can control the dreams himself, change the dreams? Never mind the reasons, he reminds himself, this equipment is valuable. The price he could ask…

He rushed back into the living room, finding Arthur waiting for him. Arthur smiles halfway when he spots the PASIV and they walk down the hall

The door at the end bursts open an instant later and Eames dives behind Arthur. The second guard reaches for his gun and Arthur fires a single shot. He falls. Arthur straightens. He keeps his gun out and ready.

“I think that was the last one,” Eames ventures.

“Are you sure?” Arthur asks pointedly, and Eames can’t answer. Better to be safe, he supposes.

As they leave the suite Eames turns back. Sunlight floods the hall. There is one dead man here, and two more in the bedroom. Yet the light is so bright and clear. Arthur turns and steps up next to him, gun out of the way. He too looks back into the suite for a moment.

“We have to go,” he says, voice gentle.

Eames looks at him and smiles.

  



End file.
